I have not written anything in any of my blogs for over a week now. Granted, affairs at work and at home have picked up a notch in the busy department but that has never stopped me from writing before. I did a momentary zen-like pause yesterday and did some introspection and came to the only plausible conclusion. The anniversary of my mom’s death is creeping up. Like a natural law imbedded in my inner clock, the anniversary of her murder causes a reaction in me every single year. The same phenomenon happens to my sister who was 8 years old at the time. Usually we’re depressed for a week or so. This year has been my busiest year for some reason and I haven’t shed a tear as yet but that’s not an indication that I’m not tortured inside. And as far as my writing goes, I have not experienced that “umph” that would normally make me drop my twizzler and rush to my computer and write until 1:00am. I’m forcing myself to write right now.
Tomorrow, November 22nd will be 17 years since my mother was murdered by my father. It feels like only one year has passed. Still fresh in my psyche are the details leading up to her death and the details directly after. It was a crisp November Friday night. For the first time in the 6 years that we were living at our home, my father locked the only lock on the front door that everyone knew I didn't have a key for. When I came home from school, I was locked out. I headed over to my cousin's house just two houses away as my father probably estimated. My sister followed suit when her school bus dropped her off. We had fun playing around at my cousin's house. It was peaceful compared to ours. So when I happened to see my father pulling up in his car from work around 5pm, I did not go home. I wanted to stay where I was for as long as I could. He didn't even come over to get my little sister and I because this would get in the way of his plan. Time passed and when my mom arrived about 7:30pm to a sleeping hunter, she came over to my cousin's house to collect my sister and I.
We entered our home to see my father just rousing from his nap (he probably got tired waiting for my mother). We took our coats off and dispersed. I went straight to the living room television in expectation of my mother's favorite show ironically titled, "Family Matters". She affectionately called it "Erkyl" after the minor character that became the main one. To make a long story short, my father picked a senseless fight with my mother. After he beat her up in our living room, my mother headed quietly to the basement to do laundry as if nothing ever occurred. My little 3 year old brother was always with my mom, so he followed her down the stairs crawling backwards. My sister also followed her down there. I think the intention in their young minds was to make mommy feel better with their company. I, on the other hand, was bred in a more hostile environment, so I did what I did everytime a blow up would occur. I vacated the premises. I went straight to my bedroom upstairs. Around 9:00pm, when I heard everything settling, that's when I decided to go downstairs. There I would witness a more horrific series of events.
TO BE CONTINUED....